How Lestrade Knew Sherlock Was Alive
by Yukimura Hina
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Lestrade's backlash. Beta'd but any mistakes or Americanisms are mine. R&R and all that jazz.


~How Lestrade Knew Sherlock Was Alive~

He really didn't want to be here.

The lights in the conference room seemed too bright. He could feel sweat breaking out in beads on his upper lip, catching in the three-day stubble he'd managed to accumulate. The antacids he took earlier that morning with cold coffee and a hastily eaten bagel weren't working and suddenly, he wondered if he were to be sick all over the desktop, would this press conference kindly be postponed?

Lestrade realized he was in deep shit. Not only within his own division, but with the whole of the Yard, and if it got worse today, depending on what he said, he could be castigated by even higher in the British government.

Sneering a little, he wondered if he'd be lucky enough to have to see the OTHER Holmes. It's all his fault, he thought with dismay.

John hadn't told him much after- after.. but he had mentioned that "fucking Mycroft HANDED Moriarty everything he needed." Lestrade was confused and angry at the whole business.

It was, after all, his loyalties being called into question, whether he stood with Scotland Yard, or with this man that was accused not only of inventing James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, but of tampering with evidence going back half a decade. Sally Donovan sat next to him, shuffling papers silently, waiting for all the reporters and their commanding officers to enter the room and Lestrade was struck suddenly with a sense of hopelessness. Finally, it began. He stated his name for the record.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Homicide Division." Voice clear and head held as high as he could, he began his speech, abandoning his notecards. They were pretty illegible any way, sweat from his hands smudging his pencil marks.

"I realize this investigation on the character and legitimacy of myself and my team is warranted; I have jeopardized a good number of our cases by working with a freelancer, a consulting detective..."

Next to him, Donovan snorted derisively and said, just barely under her breath, "Freak."

If looks could kill, Donovan's brains would be splattered all over the wall behind her. Lestrade stared at her in a moment of pure hatred before turning back to the sea of cameras and tape recorders.

"But allow me to explain, maybe just why I did what I did.. and why I stand with my choices." He finished his sentence to shocked mutters from the audience in front of him. He wiped his mouth and wished desperately for a cigarette. This was it. Make it or break it time.

"I first met the late Sherlock Holmes nearly seven years ago. He was a mess. Out of uni, and an addict. Brilliant mind though, and I could see that straight off. Told him later that if he wanted to help, he'd have to get clean- and he did. Made the quickest turnaround I'd ever seen. Every single case he's assisted with has been closed and more often than not, with the criminal behind bars. He changed from the strung-out kid hanging around the crime scene to the greatest detecting mind I've ever known. For those of you that have met him, you just know. He doesn't make it up. He sees things we don't, can recall memories in the blink of an eye. Yes, he can be a bit of.. well a bit of a prick," the crowd shifted, some nervous giggles floated out, "but I've seen how swiftly he moved when a person's life is on the line. He cared. I know he did."

Lestrade cleared his throat, trying to make eye contact with as many people as he could, pleading silently with them.

"I am sorry to have to burden my team with the retesting of evidence long forgotten, but I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and I will not let the reputation of a great man be tarnished."

He finished with a crescendo, nearly rising out of his chair in exuberance, but settled quietly down when he remembered all the cameras trained on him. Donovan next to him had the good grace at least to look humble. Dimmock, who stood at the back of the room behind the sea of reporters looked a bit misty-eyed. Lestrade cleared his throat again and rose, picking up and shuffling his abandoned speech cards in his still sweating hands.

"If that'll be all," the nervousness was back in his voice. Oh, I'm sacked. I'll never work again. What'll the wife say? "Anderson is our VERY capable forensics leader. He will begin re-evaluating cases this afternoon." Immediately, there was a buzzing from his pocket, but Lestrade ignored it. He just needed to get out of there. He waved away the barrage of questions as he headed to his office, locking the door behind him and drawing the blinds. He collapsed into his chair, the fake leather squeaking as he leaned back, exhausted. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and gaped at the single, anonymous word in his inbox:

WRONG.


End file.
